THE  CHRISTM  AsTR  AIL 

AND 
OTHER  POEMS 


Skirley  Harvey 


J 


LIBRARY 


OF 

CAUPORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


THE  CHRISTMAS  TRAIL 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  CHRISTMAS 
TRAIL  AND  £3  £3 
OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
SHIRLEY  HARVEY 


CONCORD 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Shirley  Harvey 


To 
EDWIN  LESLIE  MCFALLS 


To  The  Aegis  and  The  Bema  the  author  is  indebted  for 

permission  to  reprint  many  of  the  poems 

appearing  in  this  volume 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Christmas  Trail  i 

Dream  Paths  2 

The  Chapel  Bells  3 

The  Cabin  4 

Dartmouth  to  Her  Sons  5 

The  Trophy  Room  6 

To  the  College  Church  7 

To  the  Old  Bridge  8 

Path  o'  Dreams  9 

The  Elms  of  Easton  Gray  10 

The  Butterfly  u 

A  Pool  in  the  Woods  12 

The  Song  of  St.  Martin's  Bridge  13 

Christmas  Eve  14 

Failure  15 

The  Toy-Shop  16 

The  Song  of  the  Riders  17 

Youth  Calls  19 

Evening  20 

An  Eastern  Parable  21 

A  Challenge  22 

Vox  Tempestatis  23 

The  Search  of  Spring  25 

Galatea  26 

To  a  Girl  Who  '  'Couldn't  Endure  Tobacco"  28 

To  a  Plagiarist  29 

Here's  to  -  30 

August  1914  31 

The  Shadow  32 
To  One  Who  Died  in  the  Service  of  the  Red  Cross    33 

vii 


Page 

Tramp  Steamers  at  Dawn  34 

A  Railroad  Yard  at  Night  35 

The  Song  of  the  Crickets  36 

The  Oxen  38 

A  Cow-Path  40 

The  Song  of  the  Ground-Hog  41 

The  Sestina  of  the  New  Englander  42 

Going  Down  the  Hill  44 


viii 


THE   CHRISTMAS   TRAIL 

'  I  'HE  snows  drift  deep  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
A      And  the  winds  from  the  north  are  still, 
There's  a  star  in  the  east,  and  one  in  the  west, 
And  the  moonlight's  on  the  hill. 

'Tis  vain  you  look  for  the  campfire  glow, 

And  hark  for  a  friendly  hail, 
For  every  manjack's  cut  the  snow 

And  packed  on  the  Christmas  Trail. 

And  what  is  the  Christmas  Trail,  you  say? 

And  where  do  its  travelers  roam? 
Just  chuck  this  thought  in  your  kit  to  stay : 

The  Christmas  Trail — leads  home! 


DREAM   PATHS 

A  SILENT  moment  in  the  moonlit  night, 
A  glimpse  through  leafy  paths  that  wind  along 
Under  the  shadows  pierced  with  trembling  light, 
And  then, — quick  laughter  and  a  burst  of  song 
Across  the  campus. 

Wind-whispers  in  the  trees,  a  distant  star, 
A  sudden  flood  of  restless,  throbbing  dreams, 

A  flash  of  seer-like  vision, — and  afar 
The  waver  of  a  myriad  twinkling  gleams 
From  shaded  windows. 


THE   CHAPEL  BELLS 

OUT  o'er  the  snow-bound  campus, 
Breaking  the  frozen  night, 
Wrangling  one  with  the  other 
In  hurrying  headlong  flight, 
The  bells  ring  out  through  the  twilight, 
Chapel  bells  in  the  twilight — 
Iron  bells  in  the  twilight, 
That  challenge  the  winter  night. 

Hurrying  feet  o'er  the  campus, 
Crunching  the  brittle  snow, 

Shadows  surging  forward 
And  calling  to  and  fro, 

Answer  the  bells  through  the  twilight, 

Chapel  bells  in  the  twilight — 

Iron  bells  in  the  twilight, 
That  challenge  the  winter  snow. 


THE   CABIN 

AN  OPEN  door  at  the  end  of  the  trail, 
A  bunk  of  boughs  at  the  long  day's  end, 
A  shadowy  form,  a  long  clear  hail, 

And  a  grip,  may  be,  from  the  hand  of  a  friend. 
Then  we'll  burn  our  bacon  and  spoil  our  dough, — 
And  send  our  cares  where  the  dead  men  go. 

An  open  door  at  the  end  of  the  trail, 
And  a  leaping  fire  as  the  night  draws  in, 

With  a  pipe  to  smoke  as  the  hours  fail, 
A  snatch  of  song,  and  a  yarn  to  spin. 

While  the  shadows  shake  on  the  rafters  wide, 

And  the  winds  sweep  free  on  the  mountain's  side. 


DARTMOUTH   TO   HER   SONS 

YOU  have  breathed  of  the  headless  winds 
That  sweep  from  the  silent  north ; 
With  blenchless  eye  you  have  faced  the  hills 
And  the  storms  that  their  wrath  brings  forth. 

You  have  struggled  as  man  to  man, 

Sought  shelter  side  by  side ; 
You  have  seen  the  way  my  spirit  blazed 

In  the  paths  that  the  fearless  ride. 

I  have  taught  you  to  break  the  shell, 

To  value  the  man — not  birth ; 
The  toil  of  the  trail  has  stripped  your  soul 

To  know  what  that  soul  is  worth. 

I  have  wrought  the  north  in  your  heart, 
I  have  swept  her  wind  in  your  face. 

Go  forth  with  hand  and  vision  clean, 
Go! — carve  in  the  world  my  place. 


THE   TROPHY   ROOM 

A  CHIEVEMENT'S  calm  broods  o'er  thy  bannered 

**    wall, 

Silence, — yet  faint  like  thunder  from  the  past, 
A  whisper  on  the  crest  of  memory's  blast 

Seems  still  to  haunt  the  shadows  of  thy  hall. 

Motionless,  soulless  trophies,  yet  ye  call 

A  quickened  pulse,  a  tightened  hand ;  thou  hast 
The  power  to  sweep  us  backward,  hold  us  fast 

While  surge  upon  surge  about  us  ever  fall 

The  whirling  phantoms  of  dead  victories. 
Rank  upon  rank,  in  crashing  marches,  tread 
Those  legions  that  have  gone  to  chart  the  way. 

Silence, — but  like  the  beat  of  changeless  seas, 
We  feel  that  unformed  murmur  from  the  dead, 
Sounding  the  charge,  like  wind- wraith  of  the  fray! 


TO   THE   COLLEGE   CHURCH 

HOW  shall  we  answer  thee,  Mother  of  Men, 
If  thou  shouldst  bid  us  halt  our  onward  race, 

And  say,  "Here  in  the  quiet  altar  space 
Of  this  my  temple,  knelt  thy  fathers,  when 
Walled  in  by  silent  hill  and  wooded  fen 

They  dared  to  fear  their  God,  yet  dared  to  face 

The  wilderness,  and  carve  therein  a  place ; 
And  then  in  reverence  thank  their  God  again?" 
Ah!  must  we  answer  thus,  and  say  to  thee, 

"The  fear  of  God  no  longer  steels  the  heart." 

Our  vaunting  knows  no  compass  or  regret ; 
No  longer  are  we  brave  to  bend  the  knee 

Unless  in  mockery.     Thou  standst  apart. 

Oh,  spirit  of  our  fathers,  we  forget. 


TO   THE   OLD   BRIDGE 

OFT  have  I  glimpsed  you  from  the  river's  turn 
At  sunset,  when  the  glories  of  the  sky 
Warned  me  with  blazing  beacons  to  return, 

And  cease  my  ramble  ere  the  night  drew  nigh. 
Oft  have  I  trod  your  dim  and  shadowed  way, 

Where  gilded  dust-motes  tremble  at  the  sun, 
And  vagrant  river-breezes  bid  one  stay 

To  dream  a  moment  when  the  day  is  done. 
And  still,  when  other  paths  shall  guide  my  feet, 

And  sterner  tasks  shall  fret  these  hands  of  mine ; 
Amid  the  change  and  hurry  of  the  street, 

I'll  dream  again  I  glimpse  you  through  the  pine, 
At  evening,  when  the  sunset's  burning  glow 
Crimsons  in  turn  the  weaving  stream  below. 


PATH   O'   DREAMS 


dream  with  me  along  this  golden  strand; 
Flee  this  dark,   shadowed   shore,    and   breast 
the  light, 

Treading  this  path  o'  dreams  to  fairy-land, 
Leaving  the  world  behind  to  slumber  in  the  night. 

Come  live  with  me  along  this  golden  strand, 
And  build  our  days  out  of  its  laughing  light, 

Nor  fear  to  face  the  shadows  of  the  land, 
That  guard  the  quiet  of  the  slumbering  night. 


THE   ELMS   OF   EASTON   GREY 

DIM  are  thy  shadows,  black  thy  naked  limbs, 
Castilian  lace  against  a  winter  sky. 
The  memory  of  past  ages  ever  dims 

The  present.  Underneath  thy  branches  lie 
The  molds  of  ancient  shadows  long  since  gone 

To  join  the  multitude  of  passing  things 
That  phantom-like  shine  out,  and  then  anon 

Fade  in  oblivion.     Well  might  kings 
Envy  the  wisdom  in  thy  silent  calm. 

Sublime  ye  watch  the  struggling  life  that  rolls 
And  throbs  around  thee,  soothing  with  the  balm 

Of  thine  eternal  shade  those  stricken  souls 
Who  creep  to  thee  from  failure's  lash,  to  feel 
Thy  benediction  through  their  beings  steal. 


10 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

(From  the  French  of  Lamartine) 

BORN  with  the  spring,  and  dead  with  the  rose, 
Swinging  with  zephyrous  wings  to  the  sky, 
Quivering,  drunk  with  the  perfume  that  flows 

From  the  light,  on  the  breast  of  the  flowers  you  lie. 
Shaking  in  youth  the  bright  dust  from  your  wing, 
Like  a  breath  to  the  uttermost  heavens  you  swing. 

Butterfly,  thus  is  your  destiny  played, 
Like  desire  which  never  a  resting  place  knows, 
Unattained,  flitting  lightly  wherever  it  goes. 

So  seek  the  deep  sky  ere  your  pleasures  shall  fade. 


ii 


A  POOL  IN  THE  WOODS 

STILL  mirror  of  wood  mysteries,  you  lie 
Silent  and  placid  in  the  quiet  glade 
Where  broods  perpetual  dusk.     Are  you  afraid 

To  mirror  aught  but  these  dim  forms?     Dare  try 

No  brighter  fancies  to  embrace,  to  pry 
No  deeper  into  life  than  matching  shade 
With  equal  shade?     Were  you  not  made 

To  parody  as  well  a  sunset  sky? 

Close  sheltered  in  the  calm  of  your  retreat, 
The  blackest  tempest  of  the  lightning  flare 
Scarce  touch  your  surface,  for  you  stand  apart. 

Oh,  might  some  venturing  sunbeam  swiftly  beat 
Down  through  the  canopy  of  trees  and  dare 
To  light  the  very  depths  of  your  still  heart ! 


12 


THE  SONG  OF  ST.  MARTIN'S  BRIDGE 

/^ASTILIAN  skies  flash  blue  above, 
^*     Sing!     Toledan  maids. 
Castilian  hearts  are  made  for  love, 

Leap!    Toledan  blades. 
At  sunset-tide  I'll  wait  you  where 
St.  Martin's  bridge  is  mirrored  fair, 
All  rose-red  in  the  crimson  flare ; 
With  sword  or  song  I'll  meet  you  there. 

Leap!    Toledan  blades. 

Castilian  skies  flash  blue  above, 

Sing!    Toledan  maids. 
Castilian  hearts  are  made  for  love, 

Leap!    Toledan  blades. 
For  rose-lipped,  dancing  gypsy-maid, 
Beneath  St.  Martin's  balustrade, 
I'll  sing  of  love  or  draw  the  blade, 
Till  passion's  youth  shall  wane  and  fade, 

Leap!    Toledan  blades. 


CHRISTMAS   EVE 

A    BLAZING  log-fire  and  a  happy  thought, 
•**•    A  touch  of  wind  about  the  gables'  ends, 
A  dance  of  dreams  and  visions  fancy  wrought, 
The  play  of  children,  and  the  laugh  of  friends. 


FAILURE 

{STOOD  upon  the  gray  November  shore, 
And  watched  the  steel  tide  ebb  complainingly, 
And  wondered  vaguely  could  it  flow  again. 
Its  helpless,  slow  retreat  half  matched  the  pain 
That  chilled  my  heart.    For  like  the  pounding  sea, 
I,  too,  knock  ever  at  a  fast  closed  door. 


THE  TOY-SHOP 

LIFE  is  such  a  little  thing, 
What's  the  use  of  worrying! 
Like  a  child  upon  the  stair, 
Standing  in  the  sunlight  there, 
Crying  for  a  broken  toy 
Or  frightened  at  a  puppy's  joy! 

We've  the  universe  to  trace, 

Earth  is  such  a  tiny  place ! 
Like  a  silent  toy-shop,  say, 
Lots  of  toys  but  none  to  play, 

Just  the  owners  walking  slow, 

And  figuring  profits  as  they  go. 

Here's  a  man  who  cannot  sleep 
Because  the  shadows  round  him  creep ; 
Another,  trembling  at  a  noise, 
Fears  a  robber  steals  his  toys. 
Frightened  still,  as  children  are 
Wandering  lost  in  Life's  Bazar. 

Oh,  why  can't  we  laugh  and  sing, 
Life  is  such  a  little  thing! 


16 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   RIDERS 

OUT,  out  on  the  road  and  away, 
With  the  dawn  burning  red  on  the  brow  of  the 

hill, 

And  an  answering  fire  in  the  pond  and  the  rill, 
With  the  shoe  striking  sparks  on  the  flint  of  the  ledge, 
And  the  slash  of  the  green  when  it's  flanks  to  the  hedge, 
Out,  out  horsemen,  out  and  away! 

Chorus: 

Out,  out  on  the  road  and  away — 

And  away, 

Out,  out  horsemen,  out  and  away! 

Up,  up  o'er  the  hills  and  away, 

With  the  noon  burning  down  on  the  red  cottage  roof, 

And  the  dust  smoking  back  from  beneath  the  swift 

hoof, 

With  the  creak  o'  the  leather  and  smell  o'  the  land, 
And  the  foam  from  the  snaffle  thrown  back  on  your 

hand, 
Up,  up  through  the  heat,  and  away! 

Chorus: 

Up,  up  o'er  the  hills,  and  away — 

And  away, 

Up,  up  through  the  heat,  and  away! 


On,  on  through  the  dusk,  and  away, 

With  the  chill  of  the  night  wind  caressing  your  cheek, 

The  whippoorwill's  cry  from  the  reeds  at  the  creek, 

The  gall  o'  the  saddle,  the  tug  at  the  rein, 

The  ring  on  the  highway,  the  thud  on  the  lane, 

On,  on,  spur  on,  and  away! 

* 

Chorus: 

On,  on  through  the  dusk,  and  away — 

And  away, 

On,  on,  spur  on,  and  away! 


18 


YOUTH   CALLS 


tramp  away  the  dawn  with  me, 
Hip,  knee,  and  arm  joints  swinging  free; 
No  dainty,  mincing  promenade 
Where  city  pavements  jar  your  heel, 
But  country  paths  where  you  may  feel 
The  springy  earth  that  God  has  made! 

Come  tramp  the  Greater  Road  with  me  ; 
And  take  the  paths  where  we  can  see 

The  foot-prints  of  the  pioneer; 
No  beaten  trails  where  herds  have  gone, 
But  just  a  dim  path  leading  on, 

Blazed  by  some  unknown  seer. 


EVENING 

AFAR,  dim  stretch  of  gray  road  winding  free, 
A  timid  bird-note  in  the  evening  calm, 
The  shadowy  pine  trees  murmuring  their  psalm, 
A  still  light  burning  in  the  dusk  for  me. 


20 


AN   EASTERN   PARABLE 

I  CAUGHT  the  flickering  of  jade, 
The  flash  of  silver  and  of  pearl, 
And  underneath,  as  if  afraid, 

The  brilliant  eye-gems  of  a  girl — 

That  mocked  and  laughed  and  fled  away. 

No  longer  flickered  pearl  or  jade, 
Dead  jewels  without  light  or  ray, 

The  hollow  shell  of  life  betrayed! 


21 


A   CHALLENGE 

""THERE'S  a  wind  running  wild  on  the  mountain ; 
A      Who'll  tame  it  with  me? 
Who'll  breast  the  cold  rush  of  the  fountain 
Whose  torrents  surge  free? 

Who'll  dare  the  storm  and  the  thunder, 

The  dark  and  the  pain, 
Dim  groping  in  paths  where  hands  blunder, 

Lose  grip,  and  regrip  in  vain? 

Who'll  face  the  wild  laughter  and  mocking 

Of  Nature's  harsh  bourn? 
Who'll  battle  on  pathways  the  earthquake  is  rocking 

In  anger  and  scorn? 

Battle  the  winds  that  storm,  leaping 

Round  mountain  and  cloud, 
While  smug  in  the  valley  are  sleeping 

The  dull-hearted  crowd! 


22 


VOX  TEMPESTATIS 

I  WATCHED  the  night  come  down  apace; 
I  heard  the  barren  trees 
Mutter  their  scandal  each  to  each ; 
I  heard  the  hard  surf  on  the  beach 
Mocking  the  chilly  breeze. 
I  watched  the  cold  moon's  brilliant  face 
Dim  'neath  the   gathered  clouds; 
I  caught  the  first  rush  of  the  gale, 
I  heard  the  snarling  breakers  hail 
The  reefs  in  their  foam-spun  shrouds. 

And  then  above  the  tempest's  blast, 
Out  of  the  wind  that  hurried  past, 
I  heard  the  cry  of  souls  aghast 
At  the  hungry  rolling  sea, 
Chant  loud  and  wild,  like  souls  forlorn, 
A  dirge  of  death,  on  the  breezes  borne, 
The  wail  of  men  when  the  heart  is  torn : 
Miserere  Domine! 


I  heard  the  whine  of  the  coming  sleet, 
The  hiss  of  the  rain-scourged  sea ; 
Only  a  moment  the  moon  shone  out, 
Through  tattered  clouds  gold  edged  about, 
But  the  waves  showed  clear  to  me, 
Blank  and  clear  where  the  surges  beat, 
Then  the  moon  was  veiled  again. 
The  storm  broke  with  a  sullen  roar, 
The  lightning  bridged  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  the  sea  was  dark  with  rain. 

Was  it  the  souls  of  the  ocean's  dead, 
Torn  by  the  gale  from  their  weedy  bed, 
Who  chanted  low  in  accents  dread 
That  hollow  chant  to  me? 
Bewailing  with  their  hopeless  groan 
That  surged  above  the  ocean's  moan 
A  sinless  sin  they  cannot  atone? 
Miserere  Domine! 


24 


THE   SEARCH   OF   SPRING 

WHEN  the  Spring  is  on  the  hill, 
Laughing  in  each  brook  and  rill, 

Peering  slyly  down  the  vale, 

Peeking  into  every  dale, 
What  is  it  he  seeks  to  find? 
Something  Winter  left  behind? 

Does  he  seek  a  place  to  hide 

When  the  Autumn's  winds  shall  chide, 
Urging  him  to  flee  again 
From  the  Winter's  sleet  and  rain? 

Or,  perhaps,  he  hopes  to  see 

Fairies  dancing  fancy-free, 
Criss  and  cross  on  dainty  toe 
Weaving  charms  no  one  can  know! 

South  Wind,  tell  me  from  your  lore 

What  the  Spring  is  looking  for! 


GALATEA 

CAN  you  not  feel  me  with  your  chisel  point? 
Does  it  not  tremble,  sense  the  sacred  thrill 
Of  the  warm  marble  that  is  o'er  my  breast? 
No,  you  are  like  the  others ;  so  I  still  am  blind. 
Your  chisel  gropes  like  theirs,  your  hand  is  weak; 
And  I  who  sheltered  here,  as  I  have  often  crept 
Into  rough  marble  that  the  sculptor  waits, 
Must  flee  again,  and  leave  the  marble  cold. 
And  you  shall  carve  as  you  have  done  before, 
As  others  have,  and  men  shall  mock  or  praise, 
While  I,  still  blind,  must  hurry  on  again. 
And  yet  I  thought, — when  I  had  fled  and  left 
That  painter  with  his  lifted  brush  in  air 
Whose  master  hand  I  hoped  might  find  me  sight, 
When  I  left  him,  to  blindness  and  half  truths, 
And  came  to  you,  and  crept  in  the  chill  stone ; 
How  cold, — your  chisel  groping  at  my  heart! 
I  felt  the  tremor  of  your  guiding  hand, 
I  thought,  Ah,  here  at  last  is  one  whose  soul 
Shall  catch  the  flutter  of  my  heart,  and  steal 
The  darkness  from  my  eyes,  and  set  me  free : 
The  perfect  beauty  of  a  Perfect  Art! 
But  no,  your  chisel  erred — I  felt  the  point. 
Your  soul,  too  little  to  conceive  my  shape, 
Must  guide  the  chisel  in  its  little  way; 
And  I,  with  wounded  heart,  must  flee  again. 
Oh,  could  I  only  see,  to  watch  you  work 
Your  blundering  will  upon  the  shapeless  stone 
That  once  I  thought  to  warm  with  my  own  life! 


26 


Out  of  whose  radiant  virgin  purity 

I  was  to  step  beneath  your  god-like  hand! 

No,  I  must  hurry  on  to  some  brave  soul, 

Make  heart  and  marble  one,  or  lurk  unseen 

Behind  the  blankness  of  some  painter's  frame ; 

Or  creep  within  some  poet's  drying  line, 

Perchance  to  find  some  wild  musician's  strain 

That,  issuing  from  the  organ,  shall  lay  bare 

My  soul,  and  give  my  eyes  their  starry  sight! 

So  I  have  dreamed  before,  and  yet  in  vain. 

Blind!  blind  till  some  seer-like  soul,  with  mind 

Immortal  to  the  petty  thoughts  of  earth, 

Shall  find  me  hiding  in  his  shapeless  clay 

And  set  me  free,  perfect  in  form  and  line! 

Why  do  I  tarry?     Already  I  can  hear 

A  youth  who  calls  to  me  with  joyous  heart, 

With    soul   that   throbs  with   dreams   of   wondrous 

things. 

Into  his  canvas  will  I  cramp  my  limbs ; 
And  warm  his  blending  colors  while  I  feel 
His  hot  breath  laboring  through  parted  teeth, 
Feel  his  brush  tremble  at  his  passion's  touch ; 
And  his  clear  eyes,  beaming  like  stars,  unseen 
But  even  in  my  darkness  felt,  shall  watch 
With  awe,  while  slowly  'neath  his  quivering  hand 
In  perfect  purity  my  soul  shall  leap 
Into  clear  being;  and  his  earthly  paint, 
Warm  on  my  bosom,  laughing  in  my  eyes, 
Lustrous  in  shadows  where  my  tresses  fall, 
Shall  mock  the  very  earth  from  whence  they  sprang! 


TO  A  GIRL  WHO  "COULDN'T  ENDURE 
TOBACCO" 

I'M  NOT  surprised  you  couldn't  stand  my  pipe; 
That's  woman's  way. 

You've  not  the  knack  of  seeing  hah*  the  worth 
In  good  P.  A. 

The  poetry  of  the  curling  smoke  is 

Lost  on  you. 
You  "can't  endure  it!"    No,  of  course  you  can't,— 

You're  not  expected  to. 

It  takes  a  mind,  and  not  complexion, 

To  understand 
The  peace  and  fellowship  encircled 

By  a  cigar  band. 


28 


TO   A  PLAGIARIST 

YOU  have  given  us  dross  from  the  many, 
And  gold  from  the  few ; 
You  have  given  us  much  that  was  ancient, 
A  little  that's  new. 

You  have  played  the  thief  with  the  dead, — 

That's  shameful  I  know ; 
And  yet  you  have  picked  with  discretion 

The  men  you  would  owe. 

Your  sin  of  a  truth  is  unholy, 

And  yet  I  condone ; 
Far  better  to  give  us  the  worst  of  another 

Than  the  best  of  your  own. 


HERE'S   TO  —  ' 


"""THE  little  poets  of  little  thought  and  song, 
•I      Who  sing  so  carelessly, — and  jog  along; 
Who  without  thought  of  critic,  or  of  gain, 
Go  spattering  lyrics  like  an  April  rain! 


AUGUST  1914 

A  MILLION  war-swept  people  raise 
Their  stricken  hands  in  air ; 
The  women  voice  a  nation's  woe 

Too  great  for  them  to  bear ; 
And  babes  stretch  out  a  tiny  palm — 
And  find  no  mother  there ; 

For  kings  into  each  other's  hands 
Have  thrust  the  sword  of  war. 

The  humming  mills  no  longer  pour 

Their  smoke  across  the  sky; 
Where  once  the  harvest  fields  stretched  fair 

The  grinding  armies  lie ; 
And  women  learn  with  blenchless  face 
To  watch  their  husbands  die ; 

For  kings  into  each  other's  hands 
Have  thrust  the  sword  of  war. 

How  long,  how  long,  oh,  Silent  Christ, 

Must  we,  thy  children,  hear 
The  iron  words  of  mimic  gods 
Call  out  their  war-like  gear; 
How  long  must  we  thus  blindly  die 
Beasts  brutalized  by  fear, 

When  kings  into  each  other's  hands 
Shall  thrust  the  sword  of  war? 


THE   SHADOW 

ALONG,  low,  level  stretch  of  plain, 
Rich  with  a  harvest  that  never  will  be 
Garnered,  except  by  wheeling  crows  that  scream 
About  marauding  hares  and  nibbling  mice : 
The  only  gleaners  left  to  claim  a  share. 
Sunlight,  and  warm  winds  that  stir  the  grain, 
The  silence  of  a  summer  afternoon, 
Perpetual  Sabbath  kept  in  No  Man's  Land. 
Out  of  the  south,  drifting  on  the  tide 
Of  peaceful  winds,  a  sweeping  veil  of  smoke, 
A  thin,  dun  cloud  that  ever  surges  on, 
Waxing  in  blackness,  billowing  fold  on  fold, 
Until  The  Shadow  darkens  all  the  plain, 
Turning  the  yellow  wheat  to  dusky  bronze 
That  glints  the  blood-red  sunlight  struggling  through 
The  tumult  of  the  skies. 


TO  ONE  WHO  DIED  IN  THE  SERVICE 
OF   THE   RED   CROSS 

R.  N.  H. 

NOT  for  the  petty  broils  or  rage  of  kings, 
Not  for  the  lust  of  land  or  empired  pride, 
Have  you  made  sacrifice!     The  hand  that  flings 

The  tri-color  on  your  bier  can  never  hide 
With  partisan  flag  the  cause  for  which  you  fell! 

"For  France?"     Nay,  rather  say   Mankind;    the 

path 
That  led  your  feet  to  death  can  truly  tell 

Of  Calvary.    Your  mercy  mocked  the  wrath 
That  surged  insanely  round  you,  as  your  hand 

Toiled  to  undo  the  evil  hate  had  wrought. 
Greater  because  you  served  at  no  command 

Except  the  call  that  spoke  within;  and  nought 
Can  dim  the  laurel  now,  or  stem  the  tear 
That  falls,  a  benediction,  on  your  bier. 


33 


TRAMP   STEAMERS   AT  DAWN 

PHANTOM  ships  in  the  fog-gray  dawn, 
Masters  of  wind  and  tide, 
Leaving  your  land-locked  anchorage, 
The  wind-stripped  seas  your  guide, 
Beating  out  from  the  harbor's  peace 
To  the  toil  of  a  road  untried, 

What  is  the  call  that  comes  to  you 
From  out  of  the  weaving  mist? 

What  do  you  seek  in  the  voiceless  sea? 
What  shadow  keeps  your  tryst? 

Some  dingy  quay  in  an  island-port, 
Or  a  reef  where  the  breakers  twist? 


34 


A   RAILROAD   YARD   AT   NIGHT 

HERE  in  the  night, 
Half  mystic,  half  realistic  in  its  lure, 
Twinkling  with  weaving,  streaming  light, 
Red  and  green  spattered,  here  garish,  here  obscure, 
With  many-fingered  beams  criss-crossing 
And  retreating  back  again, 
The  Yard  binds  in  a  Gordian  knot 
These  silver  threads  that,  creeping  from  the  night, 
Are  seized  as  by  a  genii's  hand  and  wrought 
Into  this  maze  of  shifting  light, 
A  murmuring,  threatening,  human  firmament 
That  mocks  the  heavens. 


35 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   CRICKETS 

WHEN  the  birds  of  night  are  hovering,  and  day 
is  on  the  wane, 

And  the  shadows  stretch  and  cover  all  around, 
You  can  hear  the  summer   crickets,  through  the 

medley  of  the  sound, 
Sawing  out  their  quaint  and  shrill  refrain. 

As  the  mists  are  slowly  gathering  across  the  meadow 

land, 
A  white  haze  out  of  nothing,  where  nothing  was 

before, 
Then  the  fiddles  of  the  crickets  set  to  music  all  the 

lore 
That's  been  taught  them  by  the  flitting  fairy  band. 

With  a  zing-ing-ing,  and  a  trill  at  the  close, 
And  a  rasp  where  the  rosin  fails, 

They  fiddle  the  tune  that  the  cricket  knows, 
When  the  saffron  sunset  pales, 

With  a  trit,  trit,  trit,  and  a  tee-ee-ee, 
And  a  rasp  where  the  rosin  fails. 


Now  it  swings  in  double  volume ;  and  then  slowly  dies 
away, 

As  its  beat  and  throb  flows  smoothly  up  the  hill. 

Now  it  rings  a  sharp  falsetto,  or  bursts  into  a  trill, 
As  the  fiddles  strike  into  another  lay. 

Then  at  last  in  slower  cadence ;  and  with  muted  fiddle 

strings, 

They  sweep  the  meadow  with  their  lullaby; 
And  the  hillside  sounds  are  silent  as  the  last  strains 

slowly  die, 
And  the  cricket  troupe  aside  its  music  flings. 

With  a  zing-ing-ing,  and  a  trill  at  the  close, 
And  a  rasp  where  the  rosin  fails, 

They  fiddle  the  tune  that  the  cricket  knows, 
When  the  saffron  sunset  pales, 

With  a  trit,  trit,  trit,  and  a  tee-ee-ee, 
And  a  rasp  where  the  rosin  fails. 


37 


THE   OXEN 

THEY  were  toiling  on  the  hillside  in  the  golden- 
yellow  gloaming, 
With  the  purple  of  the  shadows  lying  thick  along 

the  wall. 
Dumb,  they  walked  along  the  furrow,  and  their  sweaty 

flanks  were  foaming 

As  they  bent  their  steaming  shoulders  to  the  labor 
of  it  all. 


Dumb,  they  toiled  along  the  furrow  in  the  labor  of 

it  all. 
And  the  brown  dust  warm  and  heavy  hung  in  clouds 

about  their  shoulders, 

And  the  yoke-pins  shook  and  rattled  with  the  plow- 
share's  rise  and  fall. 

Indistinct  upon  the  hillside,  there  they  loomed  like 
living  boulders. 


Indistinct  upon  the  hillside,  black  and  gray  like  living 

boulders, 
Toiling  grimly  in  the  twilight,  never  knowing  whence 

they  wrought, 
Like  a  vague  and  quaint  enchantment  that  in  ancient 

saga  smoulders, 

Toiled  the  oxen  on  the  hillside  in  the  dusk  the 
shadows  brought. 

Labored    mutely,  uncomplaining,   in   the    dusk   the 

shadows  brought, 
Never  asking,  never  knowing,  blindly  toiling  'neath 

the  goad, 
Blindly  bending  in  the  twilight  to  the  labor  of  their 

lot, 

By   the   gods   foredoomed    to    struggle,   living, — 
dying,  'neath  their  load. 


39 


A   COW-PATH 

YOU  wander  like  a  vagrant  child  across  the  weed 
grown  pasture-side, 
Lying  among  the  hardback  bloom,  hah*  buried  in 

the  golden-rod. 
A  ragged  tramp  of  slender  means,  you  prove  indeed 

a  rambling  guide 
Who  winds  about  nor  ever  leads  to  paths  that  other 

men  have  trod. 
You  skirt  the  hill,  and  ford  the  brook,  seeking  the 

coolness  of  the  brush. 
Care-free  and  blithe  you  wind  about,  a  rattle-brain 

without  a  thought 
Or  worry  as  to  whence  you  come.    At  evening  in  the 

twilight  hush, 
When  faint  and  still  the  pasture  lies,  wrapped  in 

the  gloom  the  dusk  has  brought, 
Your  way  becomes  a  fairy  path,  rich  with  the  fantasy 

of  dreams 
That  leads  one  into  gypsy  lands  that  reckon  not  the 

rule  of  kings, 
But,  filled  with  hope  and  peace  and  love,  the  quiet 

world  about  you  seems 
A  land  where  wishes  spring  to  life,  a  prodigal  who 

freely  flings 
His  riches  lavishly  to  all  who  seek  him  when  the  day 

is  done, 

Crowning  his  gift-cup  with  the  gold  that  scatters 
from  the  setting  sun. 


40 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   GROUND-HOG 

D  ASKING  on  the  stone- wall,  sleepy  in  the  sun, 
•*-'    Watching  out  for  shepherd  dogs,  and  farmer- 
boys  with  guns, 

Rolling  in  the  barley  patch,  nibbling  at  the  peas, 
Hiding  where  the  alder  shoots  are  whipping  in  the 
breeze ; 
For  the  warmer  winds  are  blowing, 

And  the  farmer's  sowing  rye, 
The  sunshine's  in  the  clover  field, 
And  Spring  is  marching  by. 

Lying  underneath  the  bank,  listening  to  the  rain, 
Whistling  at  the  bay  mare  browsing  in  the  lane, 
Drowsing  at  the  burrow's  mouth,  when  the  weather's 

fine, 

Listening  to  the  baby  crows  squabbling  in  the  pine ; 
For  the  warmer  winds  are  blowing, 

And  the  farmer's  sowing  rye, 
The  sunshine's  in  the  clover  field, 
And  Spring  is  marching  by. 


THE   SESTINA   OF  THE   NEW 
ENGLANDER 

AN  HOUR  to  dream  in,  and  an  hour  to  sing, 
An  hour  to  think  of  friends  who  are  not  by; 
Yes,  that  is  all  that  I  would  ever  ask 
The  day  to  grant  me  ere  it  fled  away; 
To  watch  the  sunset  kindle  on  the  hill, 
Knowing  it  burnt  no  evil  that  was  mine. 

To  know  that  somewhere  in  this  heart  of  mine, 
There  dwelt  a  thought  that  made  another  sing, 
And,  when  the  shadows  stretched  along  the  hill, 
To  feel  no  loss  that  day  was  hurrying  by; 
So  could  I  watch  the  sunset  die  away, 
And  answer  anything  my  soul  could  ask. 

So  will  the  labor  that  the  world  may  ask, 
The  daily  toil  or  sorrow  that  is  mine, 
Breed  no  remorse  to  steal  my  peace  away, 
And  bid  my  heart  to  weep  or  falsely  sing. 
I'll  find  my  sermons  in  the  wood  hard  by, 
And  read  my  benedictions  from  the  hill. 

For  as  our  life  is  like  a  rough-scarred  hill, 
So  let  us  climb  in  wonder,  never  ask 
To  know  the  hidden  dangers  we've  passed  by. 
I  am  content  if  these  slow  feet  of  mine 
Take  but  a  faltering  step ;  my  heart  can  sing 
The  longer  if  the  end  looms  far  away. 


42 


The  log  that  burns  the  quiet  night  away, 
The  hollow  bird-note  from  the  darkened  hill,- 
These  have  so  many  songs  I  cannot  sing, 
My  swelling  heart  can  only  fondly  ask 
That  all  these  simple  treasures  that  are  mine 
May  fall  to  others,  too,  ere  they  pass  by. 

No,  let  the  pomp  and  glitter  pass  me  by, 
And  bear  ambition's  longings  far  away; 
They  leave  no  sorrow,  for  they  are  not  mine, 
They  cannot  scourge  me  faster  up  the  hill. 
The  happy  gift  of  plodding — that  I  ask ; 
I  would  not  hurry  so  I  may  not  sing. 

Let  life  slip  by,  night  gather  on  the  hill, 
And  if  from  far  away  comes  one  to  ask 
The  secret  that  is  mine, — I  bid  him  sing! 


43 


GOING   DOWN   THE   HILL 

NIGHT  is  on  the  high-road, 
The  tavern  lights  shine  fair, 
The  lanterns  of  the  farm  hands 
Are  swinging  here  and  there. 

The  primrose  cups  are  open, 
The  golden-rod  looks  gray, 

And  the  deep  gloom  of  the  apple  tree 
Is  blotted  'cross  the  way. 

The  night  is  on  the  high-road, 

The  countryside  is  still, 
And  the  home-light  smiles  a  welcome 

As  I  go  down  the  hill. 


44 


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A     000  672  400     9 


